


Der Nebel

by ilargia



Category: Ski Jumping RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M, but here they are, the ones that used to melt my brain into syrup, there is a long story how did I start to write dark things about them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 15:11:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6429469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilargia/pseuds/ilargia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stefan puts a handwritten note on the table and escapes from the room, silently, with no noise at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Der Nebel

**Author's Note:**

> Basically it's the third chapter of Das Spiel, but it can be easily read as a separate drabble. (Yes, I finally got myself to translate something into English.)

Stefan puts a handwritten note on the table and escapes from the room, silently, with no noise at all.

"A morning run. Will be back soon". And a smiley face, an obligatory smiley face at the end of it, so it won't seem too serious. Too strange. Too harsh. 

He knows Michael has no need in these tricks. He just imagines him waking up after the alarm set beforehand, just like always. A clear image in his head, just like he has seen it dozens, hundreds of times.

Right before leaving the room he hesitates for a few seconds in front of the mirror, looking closely right into his own eyes. He would be happy to feel anything right now, but he doesn't. He diverts his glance and makes his way to the door.

Cold air stings the skin. Stefan pulls the air with his nostrils, shaking insensibly, as he's moving across the streets in the predawn darkness. The sun has already touched the tops of Penken and Ahorn, painting them blood red, but the alleys are still as grey as the cobblestones in the pavement. He hides deep inside his coat and catches himself thinking that maybe it makes him as invisible as he'd like to. 

Michael waits him right on the crossroad by the gas station. He's leaning on a wooden fence, hands resting on his hips, showing with his whole body position that he's been made to wait, and it's something that makes him uncomfortable. Stefan approaches him with his head down, although he knows he's been late for only a couple of minutes. Yet he got used to that.

Nothing is moving around them. Only the pink sunlight is slowly moving down the mountaintops, conquering more and more terrain on the slopes. All is silent and quiet. 

Stefan steps close to him, up to an uncomfortable closeness, still not raising his head. He feels a light touch on his chin, a slow, but firm hand movement suggesting him to look up. He does that and sees Michi's face only an inch away from his own. He has no other option than to move even closer and to give in. 

The bell on the town church rings loudly above the valley. 

His hand moves frantically up and down Michael's waist, sliding under the coat, caressing the thin layer of fabric of his shirt, the blue one, the one he has taken off him such a big number of times, sliding under it just to feel the cold skin covered in goosebumps under his fingertips.

Michael’s hand slides more downwards, and he shakes from the touch of the ice cold fingers. He tries to disconnect, tries to lose himself in the feeling of the stinging contact, but he can't escape from the thoughts filling his own mind. What if some early bird passes through this forgotten field in the back of the town. What if Marisa wakes up early and decides to look for him. What if she calls. What if. What if.

Thoughts are circling in his mind like a spiral ready to unwind. He tries to bury his head in Michael’s shoulder thinking that the questions will go away if he grasps any tighter, if he concentrates any stronger. They don't. 

The unspoken question whether Michael is filled with the same kind of panic sinks in the moan broken halfway. 

Michael stares him right in the face with a disordered look and embraces him tight, tighter than he usually does, as if he could slip away through his fingers like the morning mist still filling the valley. 

Stefan doesn't look at him as they are slowly moving up the streets of the small town, with no word spoken out loud. The pink light on the mountain slopes resonates with the pink shade of his own cheeks.


End file.
